


Conversations with the Damned

by whimsicality



Series: Good Intentions [1]
Category: Roswell (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Adult Language, Angst, Gen, Hell, not even remotely happy, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/pseuds/whimsicality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance conversation between cellmates in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations with the Damned

_"We're not the damned, folks, we're the categorically fucked." - Urian, Dark-Hunter Series by Sherrilyn Kenyon_

Liz's head thudded against the hot stone wall and she took a shallow breath of the dank, sulfur laden air. Once upon a time she'd liked the smell of sulfur; it had made her think of science and home and solving the mysteries of the universe. Now she knew the truth -- sulfur really did fuel hellfire, home was merely an illusion, and the universe? It was better off unsolved because mysteries always, but always, bit you in the ass and sucked out your soul.

She took another breath, the air scraping like sandpaper against her dry tongue and throat. Her skin was flushed and feverish and her hands jerked repetitively against her manacles, more out of habit than any real attempt to escape. Neither the biting metal of her cuffs, nor the stone she lay against, were cool enough to provide relief; in hell everything was hot, even the water. A thudding sound reached her ears past the incessant screams and she wondered distantly if her break was already over.

She'd learned to enjoy them while they lasted, even as she resented their presence at all. The only reason there were breaks from the torment, infrequent and small, was that the demons preferred their victims to still retain a piece of their sanity. Torture was so much more fun when the victims comprehended what was happening to them. She would have preferred to snap, to end up like the ones who never stopped screaming, not even when their throats began to bleed and they choked, only to swallow and begin screaming again. They at least had stopped caring, stopped feeling, stopped everything but living because dying wasn't allowed here.

There was a hollow clang and then a thump as something landed next to her: a body. The only question was whose, another face from her past to tempt her into wielding the knives? It hadn't worked yet but demons had far more patience than any saint, just another fault in her Sunday School lessons.

"So, what are you in for?" a voice rasped out of the darkness, a voice she didn't know, had never known. It would have made her jump if she wasn't so far beyond emotions as simple as surprise.

She thought about the question for a moment and then chuckled, a short, bitter sound that burned on its way out of her mouth. "I tried to save the world," she croaked, her first words in only Lucifer knew how long.

There was silence, not quite comfortable, but not as oppressive as it had been before. Then an answering chuckle reached her ears, dark, masculine, and full of weary pain. "I quit saving the world, gave it all up to save my brother."

"How'd that work out for you?" she asked when she'd worked up enough saliva to speak again, too tired to lace her tone with sarcasm and too numb to care about delicate questions or things best left unsaid.

"I shouldn't have bothered," he stated flatly. "Since he's going to end it."

She felt the faintest flicker of curiosity as images of long buried memories flashed through her head, days when she had hoped and tried and prayed in vain until she gave up praying and made a deal with the devil -- her soul and gifts in exchange for one more trip back, one more chance to make things right. She should have known better, but then after three timelines her ability to logic had been, pardon the pun, shot to hell. "He an alien?"

"No," the man replied, something that in another life would have been called amusement threading through his voice. "Just the devil's sock puppet."

She didn't bother asking if he would take it back if he could, she already knew the answer. It was the curse of those like them, the need to fix things, the stubborn hope that if they could just figure out the right variables, the right moments, they could make it all better. Even after four times tried and four times failed, she'd never completely lost that spark, something the demons exploited gleefully.

Those times were the worst, when they got in her head and gave her the choice and it worked out differently, when she saved them all and didn't have to carry her children's limp bodies in her arms, didn't have to close their empty eyes with bloodstained fingers, didn't have to keep moving, keep fighting, when her soul had withered and her heart had shriveled into nothingness. Perfect, shining moments of happiness that usually ended with mocking laughter and a red-hot poker in her ribs as she woke up to reality, screaming.

"Liz," she said abruptly, and felt him shift hear her in the dark. "My name was Liz."

There was a rustling sound and then something brushed against her, his calloused and fluid encrusted hand, rough and fevered against her arm. She shivered. It was the first genuinely human touch she'd felt since she'd entered the pit. "Dean."

They rested there in silence, no words needed, or wanted. What was there to talk about? Memories of before only made the horror worse, platitudes about the weather and economy didn't exactly apply, and neither scientific formulas nor cheesy pick-up lines, their respective weapons of choice, could alleviate the taint of their existence.

But companionship, mutual understanding, silent acceptance, these things were balm to their weary souls, albeit balm that held the sting of salt, aggravating wounds that would never heal again.

"Alastair's waiting, Queenie." The voice was taunting, slithering against her skin like noxious smoke, and she shuddered, Dean's hand falling away from her arm. She didn't struggle as the demon yanked her to her feet by her hair and dragged her out of the cell and down the hall, away from a pair of green eyes that watched her go, cold and hard and achingly beautiful.

When she was returned, weeks, maybe months later, kicked to the floor like a sack of potatoes, he was gone and she was glad. Because the stories lied. All of the misery and suffering that Pandora let out of the box, was _nothing_ compared to the pain and devastation caused by the shred of hope left behind.


End file.
